It's All So Very New To Me, My Dear
by TheWomenKnow
Summary: Sherlock and Irene, in Pakistan and beyond. She helps him dismantle Moriarty's empire, reluctantly. They're not particularly nice to each other but then again, they never were.
1. Chapter 1

It's All So Very New To Me, My Dear

Chapter 1

January 2012

Of all the things Sherlock expected when he rescued Irene Adler from her would-be executioners in Karachi, he hadn't expected her actual response—an open handed slap that was really meant to hurt.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, more than a little surprised at her violent reaction. Between the two of them and the AK-47 she'd managed to wrest from a captor, they had made quick work of the cell members he hadn't eviscerated with his scimitar and were now safely en route to Lahore in an old Range Rover he had commandeered. He was relieved that he'd made it on time to rescue her but he was now rethinking the sagacity of his decision, considering that the Woman was decidedly not very happy to see him.

He took his eyes off the dusty road to glare at her for a few seconds. "I travelled more than thirty hours to rescue you. A thank you would have been nice." She was still brandishing several firearms in her lap so he didn't want to antagonize her too much. Irene rolled her eyes. "You do realize that I wouldn't have needed rescuing if you hadn't actually hung me out to dry in London, right?" She was busy scanning the road for any sign that they were being followed, her eyes going to the rearview mirror from time to time. Satisfied that they were safe for the time being, Irene allowed herself to relax slightly and leaned against her seat.

"So why are you even here anyway? Last minute attack of conscience? If I recall correctly, you were perfectly happy to leave me to my fate." She was curious at to why he was even in Pakistan when he'd made it perfectly clear in his brother's study that he wanted nothing to do with her. Of all her marks, Sherlock was the only one who displayed the least susceptibility to her charms so to see him here in Karachi was like a fever dream or a hallucination. Part of her wondered if she was actually dead and this was the afterlife's cruel version of a joke. Taking advantage of his preoccupation with driving, she quickly took a Glock pistol and aimed it straight at his head. "Now Mister Holmes. Answers now. I'm not in the mood to play games anymore."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God's sake woman, if you're going to threaten me at least take the safety off that thing first. And also, you're better off koshing me in the back of the head with that because the ammunition is in the back." He smirked at her and Irene really was tempted to pistol-whip him, gallant rescue or not. Then again, he seemed to know where he was going and she did need a safe way out of Pakistan. Momentarily defeated, she lowered the gun. Quickly, he snatched it away and concealed it in some hidden compartment in his robe.

"Thank you. It occurred to me that even though the British and American Governments don't seem to think you have any value to them as an asset anymore, you could still prove very useful. You mentioned that you had contacted Moriarty and that he told you what to do with all that information you had." Ah, Jim. Of course. It was quite clear that he and Sherlock held some kind of mutual fascination for each other that was going to end in death for either one or both. She hoped it was the latter.

Sighing, Irene tried to respond as honestly as she could. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mister Holmes. If you think I still have any information on Jim, you're even more delusional than I thought. We haven't been in touch since London and I can't see why we should have any more contact in the future. I'm useless to him now." She had tried to call Jim once after the Bond Air debacle only to find the number disconnected. She hadn't been surprised—all of them were playing a high-stakes game and at this level, they all did what they needed to do to survive. Still, she was fond of Jim even though he was batshit crazy. He didn't lie to himself about what he was and Irene respected that.

"Useless to him, yes. But for my purposes, you'll do just fine." Sherlock gave her a smile that looked positively sinister in the dim light and after studying him, Irene wondered if she was better off getting beheaded after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Irene felt a forceful nudge on her shoulder and she immediately started awake. Taking notice of her surroundings as she regained consciousness, she found that she was still in the car in her blood-soaked hijab but the car had stopped. Sherlock was leaning over her seat from the driver's side, trying to wake her, non-too gently. "Good. Get up. We're here." he said unceremoniously, leaving her alone as he alit from the vehicle to grab a knapsack and some supplies from the boot of the Range Rover. Irene noticed that she was in a military base of some sort and there were quite a few Pakistani soldiers in fatigues milling about. Apart from the Pakistani flag, there was a green flag on the pole with a crescent moon and two crossed swords underneath that matched the insignias sewn on the soldiers' arms. Irene immediately recognized it as the flag of the Pakistani Inter-Services. _Of course_, she thought. Getting in and out of Pakistan was no mean feat even for Sherlock Holmes and she wondered what kind of strings he had to pull to get the ISI's help. She checked her face in the rearview mirror and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

After collecting his supplies, Sherlock walked up to the passenger side and help her alight from the car. "Know how to fake any accents? I'm a good friend of the Director's but I can't risk him knowing that I got you out. Your cover is a foreign businessman's wife but one with little presence here so as to necessitate British intervention. You have about a minute or so before he comes to meet us, so I suggest you come up with something quick." Immediately, Irene's mind went to work. An American cover was out of the question, as it would heighten rather than reduce suspicion. She could try the South American route but then it wouldn't explain the need for British help. No, she needed something European and suitably obscure. She noticed that a decorated official had exited the main bungalow and was slowly making his way towards the new arrivals. Ah, she had it now.

Feigning what she hoped was the right amount of panic and shock, she noticed that the official had given Sherlock a big hug before turning to look at her. "Director Zaheer, I wanted you to meet Miss…" Sherlock gave her a pointed look which she took as her cue to speak. "Mrs. Helena Ilves. From Estonia." She held her hand out in greeting. "I'm very grateful for all your help, I cannot wait to return home to see my family and my children." She was pretty glad she'd had an Estonian sub for the better part of the early aughts—it turned out that Anna had more uses than knowing the right temperature to wash her extensive lingerie collection. Irene made a mental note to send Anna a fruit basket the next time she was in London.

The director was a middle-aged man who was looking at her with some concern. "Mrs. Ilves, I'm so happy to know that you are ok. Please, let me know if there's anything else we can do to offer our assistance. We're extremely grateful to know that you're alive." He said this with a warm, generous tone and Irene was relieved at the sight of a friendly face. "I have a satellite phone in my office, if you need to call your family." Irene took that as a cue to feign weakness and she immediately slumped against Sherlock. "Thank you Zaheer, we might take you up on that offer later. I think Mrs. Ilves is in shock. Can you direct me to your medic" he said, trying to support her. "Of course, of course!" Zaheer waved at his aides and immediately, two soldiers ran over to them. "They'll take you to the clinic." Irene smiled at Zaheer gratefully as Sherlock waved off the attempts of the soldiers to take her.

They were led to the bungalow that housed the compound's clinic and were told to wait while the staff doctor was called. Irene rested on the small cot while Sherlock sat in the doctor's chair. The two soldiers who accompanied them had left in search of the medic, leaving them momentarily alone.

"ISI?" Irene was quite curious as to why Sherlock seemed to be on such good terms with its director. "How on earth were you manage to swing this?" She busied herself with removing her hijab, indifferent to Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock had sunk fully into his chair, leaning back. It seemed he was trying to catch a quick nap. "He owed me a favor, I called it in." he answered, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"And what kind of favor would that be?" she said, genuinely curious.

"He lost something in the back of an ice cream truck and I found it." he said, seemingly annoyed that she was trying to interrupt his nap.

"What was it, his son's baseball cap?" she said, trying to crack a joke.

"No." He opened eyes to look at her intently. "A modified Ghauri-III missile with a nuclear warhead, if you must know." He glanced at the door, listening for footsteps. "Good, the doctor's here. That should keep you from bothering me for a little while, Mrs. Ilves." He leaned back in his chair to resume his nap as the doctor came into the room, inquiring after her health. Irene schooled her features into what she hoped was an appropriate amount of distress, silently wondering what other surprises Sherlock Holmes held up his sleeve.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

After an extensive physical exam, Irene was dismissed from the clinic with a tetanus shot, some antibiotics, several tablets of diazepam and careful instructions that she needed to rest. Thankfully, the doctor didn't ask her why her clothes were soaked in blood or why her wrists were bloody from where her bindings had cut into her flesh—he'd probably seen worse in his line of work and thought it was best to ask as few questions as possible. Apart from a few bruises, her injuries were largely superficial so she didn't require much medical attention. Sherlock had left the clinic a few minutes after the medic arrived and he mumbled something about their accommodations. He returned just as she was finishing up with a clean set of clothes, consisting of a plain cotton salwar kameez and a pair of brown leather sandals. He handed the garments and shoes to the doctor and left without another word.

Once she was dressed, Irene exited the clinic to find Sherlock leaning on the side of the bungalow, dressed in a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and some khaki trousers. He was smoking a clove cigarette, leafing through a John le Carre novel with an annoyed expression on his face. Upon seeing her, he lowered the wayfarers he'd been wearing to shield him from the hot sun. "Good book?" she asked, wondering what on Earth he was doing with a paperback. "It's rubbish. I picked it up in the airport and now I wish I picked up the toilet paper roll printed with Sudoku puzzles instead. Everything alright?" he inquired, putting the book away.

"Good. The doctor said I was fine. He gave me some drugs." she said, patting the pocket that held her medication. "Did he give you anything good?" he said, with some interest. "Sorry, just some antibiotics." she replied. "Pity." He seemed genuinely disappointed and Irene made a quick note in her internal files. _Not entirely clean, then_. They'd started walking away from the clinic and Sherlock had taken her arm to lead her to the other side of the compound where the barracks were. "They're putting us up for a few hours but we're going to hitch a ride later on a chopper to Islamabad." he explained.

"Is that safe?" Irene didn't know much about the ISI but what she did know didn't inspire much confidence. Pakistani intelligence agencies were always competing with each other for control and it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that an informant had already apprised a rival faction of their movements. Sherlock simply shrugged. "Unless you want me to call Mycroft or the Americans, I can't think of another way out of this country. So we're just going to have to trust them."

He stopped at a small bungalow and opened the door, gesturing for her to follow him. "Here. Zaheer has kindly offered us the use of his quarters while we wait for transport." Irene stepped inside to find a well-furnished room, complete with a queen-sized bed, a television, a small dining room set and a tray of food. Sherlock planted himself on the couch and busied himself with the television controls while he pointed at the tray. "Eat. I had them send the food here, I didn't think you wanted to go to the mess hall." Irene squeezed his hand gratefully and busied herself with the naan and curry that was on the table. She hadn't eaten in almost two days and now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was famished.

After making quick work of her meal, she looked up to find Sherlock watching her with a mixture of disgust and amusement. "I've seen bullfights in Spain that were less bloody than that." "Well if you see a bull around here, let me know. I might just eat it." she replied dryly. "You're in enough trouble as it is, don't go around eating religious icons of the subcontinent." he said with mock disapproval. He returned his attention to the television where he was scanning all the news channels. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he resumed talking to her.

"There's no news that they'd found the bodies so we're safe. For the meantime." He changed the channel to a local Pakistani one and left it there as he stood up to grab a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner. Returning to the couch, he resumed speaking.

"I went over your records. In London." He looking at her intently now, observing every nuance of her reactions.

"And? What did you find?"

"Prior to the affair with the pictures, you'd led a quiet life. You paid your taxes. Good marks on your GCSEs and college. Even your postgrad coursework." He said this as if he was trying to work something out. "You had a good practice, made an awful lot of money, had a lot more in the bank from smart investments. I don't understand why someone like you would end up working with Jim Moriarty."

Irene sighed. "I don't expect you to understand." People were always so quick to judge sex workers, especially if they didn't enjoy sex. A thirtysomething asexual virgin with sociopathic tendencies (possible autism spectrum disorder) was probably the very last person on earth who would empathize with her. "Anyway, you don't need to understand me to use me. What do you need me to do for you?" She wasn't in the mood to dissect her past with him of all people and she tried to steer the conversation to another topic. But he wasn't having it.

"Right now, I just need you to answer my questions. When did you first get in touch with Moriarty?"

"I got in touch with him through a friend." She idly plucked an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and scored it with her fingernails.

"A friend or a client?"

"A client. Sebastian Moran. He liked it when I put a Hermes saddle on his back and rode him like a horse around the room. He used to pay me two thousand pounds an hour to do it. More if I used a riding crop." She smiled fondly, reminiscing.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Lord Moran, from the House of Lords? The Tory war hero?" Irene nodded. "Tories are always my most interesting clients. But I liked him, he was a good client." It was true, she'd never had any problems with Sebastian.

"And how did Moran introduce you to Moriarty?"

"The Opera, I have season tickets. I think I ran into them during a production of Adriana Lecouvrer, during the intermission. Seb introduced me to Jim and said that if I ever had a problem, Jim was the one who would solve it. He was very charming, very funny. He gave me his card. I didn't think I would ever need it." She watched as her fingernail pierced the apple's pristine skin, leaving a perfect crescent-shaped indent in its flesh.

"So I'm assuming you called him because a client was giving you trouble."

"Yes." She remembered the threatening voicemails and the men who started showing up in her Belgravia residence, banging on the door at odd hours. When she'd noticed a sedan parked in front of her townhouse for more than a week, she'd finally snapped and called Jim. With her decidedly upscale clientele and the sensitive nature of her work, constant surveillance meant the death of her practice. "People started following me, started harassing my clients. I didn't get to where I was by being indiscreet, I always knew how to keep secrets. But then I realized that my discretion was the thing that was probably going to get me and Kate killed. So I called Jim. He said he would help me but he had conditions. I just thought, fuck it, a girl can't dress up in garters and spank the well-heeled forever. So we put together a retirement plan, with benefits."

At that, Sherlock snorted derisively. "Based on what I overheard at Mycroft's place, you asked for a very significant sum." Irene merely stared at him as if he was stupid. "The people after me had the resources of all the best intelligence agencies. You honestly think evading them wouldn't take money? Serious money?" Sherlock was forced to concede her point. "In any case, I don't see how that's of any interest to you. You won."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I won because you wanted me to win. You wanted to get caught. That's why you kept texting me, why you even sent me your phone in the first place. You might be a good dominatrix but you're a terrible criminal. You wanted me to stop you."

Irene gave a wry smile. "What good did it do me, I lost everything anyway. There's just no merit in doing the right thing." At that, Sherlock simply had no answer. For the rest of the afternoon, they sat there silently until an aide knocked on the door telling them that the helicopter that would bring them to Islamabad was finally ready.


End file.
